Max Collins - Quarry's deal

“Why’d they rough you up that time?”

“Maybe to get back six hundred bucks I won off them. Maybe they wondered if you were onto them somehow, and wanted to see if you planted me at the table, to keep an eye on them. It’s also possible one of them saw me approach you that first time in the parking lot.”

“You saved me a lot of money tonight, Quarry.”

“Hey, I saved your ass. They could’ve killed you. At the least they’d caused some wear and tear.”

“It’s hard to put a price on something like that, isn’t it?”

“Let’s try.”

He smiled on half his face and leaned over and swung open the door of the big safe. He took out every packet of money in there, six packets in all, and stacked them on the desk in front of me.

“Three thousand. Above and beyond our other arrangement. Speaking of which…” He opened a desk drawer and took out a check and put it on top of the stacked money packets. “The first thousand I owe you. Made out as you instructed.”

“Good,” I said. “Now. I want you to do something.”

“What?”

“Don’t go home tonight. Don’t talk to anyone. That includes that cunt of yours.”

“Ruthy? But…”

“Especially Ruthy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ruthy is a good friend of Lu’s.”

“So what?”

“You gave Lu the bartender job because Ruthy asked you to, isn’t that right? Because they were old friends?”

“Yes, yes, but what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Lu is half the hit team, Frank.”

“She’s what…?”

“You heard me.”

“How long have you known this?”

“All along. I followed her here from Florida. Do you know where she lives, Frank?”

“Yes… yes I do…”

“Where, Frank?”

“Across the street from me.”

“Who found her the apartment, Frank?”

“I think Ruthy did.”

“That’s right, Frank.”

He kind of flopped back in his chair. His eyes were glazed, empty, like glass eyes.

Then he sat forward and said, “But, Christ, man… you’re living with her… sleeping with her…”

“Which just goes to show you can’t trust everybody you sleep with.”

“How can you…”

“Hey, what better way to keep track of the situation, huh?”

“She could kill you.”

“I could kill her.”

“You’re pretty goddamn fucking sure of yourself.”

“She wouldn’t kill me unless she was sure she needed to. People in this line of work aren’t frivolous about killing. She was hired to do you in, not me, and unless she’s sure I’m in her way, she wouldn’t consider it. Especially in an apart- ment she rented herself.”

“This is crazy…”

“Right. Anyway, drive someplace. Fifty miles away from here, or more. Check into a motel. You can come back to work tomorrow, and I’ll see you here, tell you where we stand. Till then, don’t be anywhere.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Listen, I thought I had a handle on this. I thought I knew who the two people were that had your number, and that one of them was that little dealer of yours, with the glasses. Only he isn’t, he’s just some little jerk planning some little heist, so all bets are off, and I got to rethink this whole fucking deal, because I only know now for sure one of the two people who’re here to cancel your subscriptions to those girlie magazines there. Now that makes me nervous. It ought to make you more than that. Go home tonight and maybe you don’t wake up in the morning. Well?”

“I’ll do what you say.”

“Fine. Got a gun to take along?”

“Yes.”

“Good. See you tomorrow night.”

The pockets of the jacket were dry, and I stuffed half the packets of money into each pocket, tucked them down deep, and put the check in my billfold.

Then I carefully folded the jacket over my arm and went out and smiled at Lu, who rose from the table, hooked her arm in mine, and we drove back to Des Moines, to the apartment, and made love and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The new play opened tonight at the Candle Lite Playhouse, and the marquee had been changed accordingly. It was early afternoon and the block’s worth of parking lot adjacent to the big brick two-story was empty. I parked along the side of the building, with a few other cars; Christine Price and a couple other people had apartments here in the theater building, and the cars probably belonged to them.

I’d spent a leisurely morning at the apartment. Lu slept in till damn near noon. I was awake around seven and sat drinking Sanka, watching the morning game shows and soap operas on the portable, volume turned down low. I watched the shows but didn’t watch them. Thinking is what I did. A lot of thinking.

Then when Lu woke up, I fixed a late breakfast for us. She appreciated that. She said it took a liberated man to work in the kitchen. I said it took a bachelor. As we ate I told her I had another job interview this afternoon, and she said fine and didn’t ask for particulars, which was nice of her, as it saved me the trouble of making some up.

There was no problem getting inside at the Candle Lite. The front doors were unlocked, just like the other day. Beyond the front doors, to the left off an entry landing, some stairs led down. Some other stairs, a shorter flight, went up to the lobby. I climbed them, wondering if strike weekend was over.

It seemed to be. The stage set was finished, four-poster bed and other antique furniture assembled into a bedroom, the walls of which were painted and made very realistic-looking scenery. No one was on stage. No one was in the big theater room with its gentle tiers with the small covered tables with chairs.

I walked back out into the lobby and down to the entryway, only I turned left this time, headed on down the stairs to the lower level, where Ruthy’s apartment was.

The big room still looked like the basement it was. Besides a few clusters of stage props, battered furniture, dressing screens, and so on, the room was just a spacious, open area probably used as a rehearsal hall. One large corner of the room, however, was walled off, and considering the size of the place the walled-off area was the size of a small house.

Ruthy’s house.

There was a door, with a glittery star on it. A sarcastic comment on the fact that an actress lived within. At least I thought it was meant to be a sarcastic comment. With Ruthy, who could say?

I knocked.

It didn’t take her long to answer.

She was wearing a red terry cloth robe, but the terry cloth was-brushed or cut some way that made it look like velvet. It was long and flowing, but it clung to her, was belted around her middle and the neckline plunged. Of course.

She touched her hair, which was piled up on top of her head recklessly, and she said, “You really don’t believe in giving a girl much notice, do you? Come on in.”

She led me through, a small living room that looked like a prop room, odd pieces of secondhand furnishings scattered around with no apparent plan, and ranging from a possibly antique love seat to a cigar-store Indian with his cigars broken off. From the living room we passed through a small kitchenette area, just large enough for a table and chairs, refrigerator, stove and sink, and a lot of dirty dishes. Then we were in a tiny hall, about the size of a broom closet, off of which was a surprisingly large bath room on the one side, and her bedroom on the other, the latter being where we finally ended up.

There were only three things in the room: her round bed, with pink sheets and a fuzzy white something spread, unmade; a huge wardrobe trunk, standing open, like a mouth going sideways, with various clothes hanging and drawers that her other things were apparently stored in; and an imposing dressing-room-style dresser with big square mirror surrounded by glowing dwarf light bulbs. The top of the dresser was cluttered with various sorts of make-up, and on the walls around the mirror, and elsewhere in the room but not as concentrated as here, were pictures of her, both glossy posed photos with the crest of a studio photographer, and large color blow-ups of snapshots taken during various performances of plays she’d been in.